Traffic
by Archaeobee
Summary: There's a collision in the steam pipe trunk distribution venue. SA, JD. ONESHOT.


_Traffic  
_By Dream Descends

Donna called it 'that thing with your shoulders'. Josh had insisted it was how everyone walked, but of course as he stormed out to find Sam, he was careful to keep his torso still as possible.

Late afternoon—the halls of the west wing were, as per usual, a flurry of flapping suit lapels and creased brows that knew where they were headed without looking up. Everyone was a little sweatier than they had been an hour ago—Josh decided as he bumped into another frazzled young secretary that he would look into corridor speed limits.

Toby appeared next to him.

Speed limits, with carpool lanes.

"Where's CJ?"

"She's with Leo."

"About that thing?"

Josh stopped. "What thing?"

"That thing—" Toby swore and bumped into him. "From this morning. Say something before you walk into people."

"What thing from this morning?"

"I don't know." He glanced at his watch. "Where's Sam?"

"Cathy says he's with Ainsley."

"Well, go get him." He started off back in the other direction.

"Because of the thing?" Josh called after him.

"What thing?" He glanced back briefly. "And don't do that thing with your shoulders, it bothers me."

"Right."

The steam pipe trunk distribution venue was considerably warmer than the rest of the wing. Josh loosened his tie as he approached Ainsley's office, the door of which was half open and, not really to his surprise, allowing the sound of two raised, very annoyed voices to travel through the rest of the sub-basement level.

They were nose-to-nose, democrat and republican, the disarming blonde and the charismatic brunette. Sam had his sleeves rolled up and his glasses were missing—as though he were prepared for a bar fight, not an argument with a younger female colleague. She had his (removed) tie in a tightly clenched fist, crushing it against the desk to drive home a point, delivered in the metrical accents of iambic pentameter.

Josh couldn't bring himself to interrupt. The speed limits had obviously been ignored and here came a dazzling head-on collision. He loved to see Sam get squashed.

"You know I'm right, Mr. Seaborn," she murmured in the expanding quiet, her breath falling on his neck as she strained to appear taller. She didn't know _Mr. Seaborn_ well enough to realize that he already saw her as a giant.

"Mr. Seaborn? That's nice. You're resorting to the appeal to a man's superiority, and to the sexist attitude you assume I have, in hopes that it will stop me from pulverizing your silly little female argument into a bunch of tiny republican blood-soaked pieces." He had a way of standing perfectly still when he was in a temper. Only his lips moved, his words falling like the strikes of a hammer.

Josh's amusement waned. The air was too hot to laugh in.

Ainsley was silent for a beat, her eyes lowering slightly. "I was trying to maintain what I, and I hope you, consider to be our formal but _friendly_ relationship as colleagues and coworkers in the aiding of this, the White House, the building in which we work to serve the president, and furthermore paying, to you, the respect that a superior member of the staff of this, the White House, deserves, as it is a wish of mine to—"

"Colleagues and coworkers are the same thing," he interrupted clumsily, breathlessly.

"Would you like to kiss me, Mr. Seaborn." She had forgotten to phrase it as a question—typical Ainsley. He pushed her back against the desk so she was half sitting, his hand holding her curled knee up against his thigh. Both her arms were hooked up around his shoulders, pulling herself upwards as their lips came crashing together like violent magnets. The embrace was rushed, and their movements were almost messy, fingers here and there, necks arched then ducked, arms and legs coiled about one another as though they couldn't live without knowing the next sensation, the next place to touch, the next second pulled together.

Josh walked quickly away from the heat of the steam pipes, and other things, returning to the main highway of activity upstairs. Donna was still sitting in his office, thumbing through files she had suggested he take a look at earlier.

"Why are you walking like that?"

Josh sat down in his chair, dragging his hand over the lower half of his face and stretching. He started. "What?"

"I said, why were you walking like that?" She sighed. "I liked the weird shoulders better that _that_."

"What was I walking like just now?"

"I don't know. Like someone had shoved today's paper up your—"

"I'm going to look into speed limits, this afternoon, Donna."

"What?"

"Never mind. Get out, please."

"Did you talk to Sam?"

Josh glared at her. "I got stuck in traffic. There was a head-on collision in the basement."

"What the hell, Josh?"

"Get out, please."

_FIN_

**Author's Note:** Yes, this is my first venture into _West Wing_ fanfiction, but I do really adore the show, so I hope I did it some justice. If you want to make my day that much lovelier, review and tell me what you think and how I can improve. Ta, loves!


End file.
